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Every few years, when the winter is especially cold, and the snow is especially thick, it happens.
A child goes out on a snowy day. It’s a day where school is all but a distant memory, a day where all that exists is child, sky and snow. And the child, below the sky, digs his hands in the snow and begins to build. First a large ball, then a smaller one. And then the head. Sometimes a carrot nose, sometimes a button. A couple of pebbles for the eyes and mouth. Maybe a bow tie, a corn-cob pipe. These details are irrelevant.
It’s the hat. The hat is what matters.
On a day like this, a worry free day, with a clear sky and clean, white snow, when the child, swaddled in the pride of his demiurge, places the hat upon the snowman’s head, it happens.
The child begins to really feel the cold of the air. The heavy coat no longer protects him from the frost. His fingers are stinging. He rips of his gloves, and they are blue, now purple, now black. He’s hungry—ravenous. He’s dry and crispy all over, frostbit. And suddenly: warm, wet, dark. Nothing.
Impossibly, the pebbles blink. The corners of the button mouth turn from a smile to a snarling grimace. The man-who-lives, the returned-one, alive again. He’s been born, and reborn, built and rebuilt, over and over again for centuries, millennia—eons. Always to die again with the coming spring.
It had been many long years since it finally drove him mad.
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